


His Real Enemies End Up in Franz Josef Land

by second_skin



Series: Mystrade Forever (Romance) [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Mycroft, Breakfast, Established Relationship, Greg Should Wear His Leather Jacket More Often, M/M, Mycroft Defends His Man, Revenge, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Mycroft's revenge is swift and cold.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Real Enemies End Up in Franz Josef Land

Greg Lestrade stepped into the foyer of the Club and removed his sunglasses, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting and sepia-toned furniture and people there. The reception hall was appointed in antique mahogany and teak from unsustainable colonial forests and featured a gallery of endangered species' heads and horns from around the globe. Greg was wearing his weekend stubble, faded jeans, and battered chocolate-brown leather jacket--the one that took away Mycroft's ability to speak in complete sentences the first time he saw it.

Despite not meeting the Club's dress code, the D.I. was still garnering friendly glances and greetings from the members in their pinstripes and starched white collars. Everyone knew and admired Greg by now. Even more, they admired the change in Mycroft since this romance began. The Holmes temper no longer flared at small provocations and he was much less likely to slice open disagreeable colleagues and feast on their entrails--metaphorically speaking, of course--than he had been only a few months ago.

Greg walked to the far corner of the room where Mycroft was deep in conversation with someone new--someone Greg hadn't seen at the Club before--a jowly, black-suited toff with an off-putting scowl. Still, might as well say hello.

"Ah, you're here, Greg. Wonderful." Mycroft beamed.

Greg looked at the buttoned-up, neatly buffed and combed man before him and remembered the way he'd looked a few hours ago. Pink, naked, legs tangled in sheets damp with sweat and semen. Greg rubbing ice cubes across the tiny raised red marks covering that broad freckled back and trying to apologize for getting a little carried away. Mycroft shivering and reassuring him, "Tut, tut--my pleasure-- _ahhh, yes--right there_ \--no need for apologies."

And damn, if he wasn't getting hard again now, just remembering the way Mycroft's cold, wet flesh felt against his warm fingertips . . .

Instead of the usual peck on the cheek, now Greg just couldn't resist an enthusiastic snog, calculated to provoke a blush from Mycroft, and an entertaining lunchtime argument over _appropriate times and places, Inspector Lestrade._

Greg could feel a pulse racing as he grazed his thumb over Mycroft's neck before breaking the kiss. He grinned broadly before gathering his wits and nodding to Mycroft's companion, reaching out for a handshake. The toff sneered and ignored the proferred hand.

"Come now, Holmes, you're slumming aren't you? Is this your car mechanic or your gardener?"

Mycroft breathed deeply, smiled, and took Lestrade's arm. "Cecil, may I present Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard's finest and my partner. Please excuse us. We have a lunch date elsewhere."

Once they were seated cozily at the Szechuan Garden, Greg gave Mycroft a questioning glance and tip of his head. "Surprised you didn't tell that bloke off, My. You usually kick idiots like that to the kerb."

Mycroft just smiled mischievously and asked the waiter about the calorie differential between steamed and pan-fried dumplings.

 

The following day at breakfast, Greg lazily glanced through the morning papers, until a photo and brief announcement on page four caught his eye. He grinned across the table at the disheveled man quietly sucking the last remnants of gooseberry jam from his fingers.

 _Sure, John Watson might have nerves of steel and perfect aim_ , thought Greg, _but there's something kind of hilarious and badass about the way Mycroft defends his boyfriend._

"Sir Cecil Browning tapped for five-year EU mission in Antarctica," the headline said.

Greg put down the paper, reached across the table, and pulled sticky pink fingers to his lips, licking and sucking each in turn.

Mycroft dipped his other hand into the dish of butter in the center of the table before climbing onto Greg's lap with another mischievous smile.

 


End file.
